


The War Elsewhere

by Kate_Wisdom



Category: Enemy at the Door (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Conflicting Loyalties, Gen, Island Magic, Moral Dilemmas & Difficult Decisions, WW2, role reversals, uplifting ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28107987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Wisdom/pseuds/Kate_Wisdom
Summary: “The war is being fought elsewhere. Not here, not on these islands.”Post July 1944, the war comes home to the starving people of Guernsey. Unconventional circumstances compel Colonel Richter and Dr Martel to stand in the gap.
Relationships: Philip Martel & Dieter Richter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. "I do my job as I see it must be done. I suspect I am not alone in this."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).



> _”Sooner or later the clash of arms will cease, and the Powers will meet not only to consider the means to an enduring peace, but also to pass judgement on the authorities, be they civil or military, upon whose conceptions of the principles of honour, justice and humanity, the fate of peoples and places, and not least of occupied peoples and places, has temporarily been determined. The Insular Government believes that, at that day, it or such of its members as survive will stand with a clear conscience born of the conviction that it has failed neither in its duty to the people nor in its interpretation and observance of the rules of International Law.”_ \- from the Bailiff of Jersey's letter to the Platzkommandantur of August 31, 1944.
> 
> My thanks, as always, to my beta and brainstorming partner-in-crime, Kainosite. Content warnings for mildly graphic accounts of starvation and deprivations during war-time; two minor cuts which bleed slightly; also Nazis (and a particularly unpleasant Nazi portrait that exists in the show).

Colonel Richter sighed. It had been a very long day in an extremely long month, and his wells of patience - - carefully cultivated over the four and a half years of his tenure as Kommandant of Guernsey - - were running dry, like other equally relevant sources of water on the island. 

“Mr Trenett, as you know, the crops you grow are under requisition by the German military command. _All_ crops, without exception. After all, your weekly harvest is at under five percent of the expected return.”

“And whose fault is that?” Trenett demanded. “Crops can only be grown in winter with a great deal of fertiliser, and diesel to pump water into gravity water tanks, and we haven’t had fuel since September!” 

The market gardener paused to draw breath. Richter had the vague prior impression of the man as a plump, florid-faced presence; that once-overweight figure was now gaunt and grey with malnutrition, as were so many of them these days, soldiers and islanders alike. The conditions had undoubtedly forced Trenett into pilfering from his depleted greenhouses in order to feed his starving family, at great risk to his own life. 

Richter knew he could not afford an excess of pity for one man. He tucked his gloved hands into the arms of his greatcoat for warmth, and made himself speak briskly. 

“I am prepared to overlook this infraction this once, given these extenuating circumstances. But I must have your word that you will comply strictly with the orders for now on.” 

Richter ought not to have wasted his sympathy. Instead of showing gratitude, the man took a step away from Richter and the soldiers who flanked him, and began to shout. 

“I will not. My collaboration days are over; we’ve been resented for years for something that wasn’t our fault. Get someone else to do your dirty work! My mother hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks, do you hear me? She hasn’t been able to get out of bed, that’s how bad it is!”

“It _is_ pretty bad, Colonel,” said Dr Philip Martel, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he walked into Trenett’s office; he, too, was wearing his coat indoors. “The old lady has been giving up her bread and milk rations for the boy, but she can’t keep going like this. None of us can.”

It was a mark of how serious matters had become that the doctor’s tones were calm. Under normal circumstances, Martel would not have stinted from providing a detailed recitation of German deficiencies at the top of his lungs. 

From the beginning of their occupation of the Channel Islands in June 1940, the German military had assumed responsibility for feeding the civilians as well as their own garrison, supplementing the crops grown on the islands with supplies shipped from occupied France. Over the course of the war, the Führer, convinced that the Allies would have to take the Channel Islands before they could land on the French coast, had substantially reinforced the 319th infantry division, swelling the islands’ population by fifty per cent as a result.

Now, after the Normandy landings in June 1944, the Allies’ naval blockade had disrupted the supply lines from France, and the already precarious food situation on the Channel Islands had taken a sharp turn for the worse. In August, three civilians had been shot for trying to steal food from their garrison. Now, as autumn gave way to a bitterly cold winter, all rations had been drastically slashed, with milk reduced to one third of a pint per head, and fuel, gas and electricity due to run out at the end of year. 

The situation had become so dire that OKW had recently issued a directive permitting a cessation of rations to the civilian population of the Islands should this become necessary. Thus far, Richter had been ignoring this directive, but he knew families across Guernsey would soon be faced with the same terrible choice as the Trenetts: to save the elderly, or the children, but not both. 

Warming to his topic, old habits dying hard, Martel raised his voice. “In fact, it’s an outrage. No decent person would stand for it, when there’s something that can in fact be done!”

Richter couldn’t help sighing heavily. The doctor had been making this argument all morning in the Kommandantur; he’d been present when the news arrived that Farmer Trenett had barricaded himself in his house in an attempt to resist arrest for pilfering supplies. Martel had insisted on accompanying Richter and the soldiers to Mont Durand, claiming the Trenetts were his patients, but Richter suspected his real reason was so that he could continue trying to wear Richter down.

Richter had conveyed the Bailiff’s August report on the dire state of supplies on Guernsey to the German High Command, and thence to the British Cabinet. The British response had not been unexpected: Churchill was adamant that giving food aid to the civil population would only prolong the German resistance. After all, the Occupying Power had full responsibility for feeding the islanders; the British would only step in when the Germans finally surrendered. 

Richter had been tasked with the unenviable position of conveying this response to the Controlling Committee. Since that time, Dr Martel had made an almost-daily pilgrimage to the Kommandantur to re-litigate the position.

“I don’t see why OKW can’t give assurances of safe passage for British ships to enter our waters, if they were on a _humanitarian_ mission!” the doctor had said this very morning, for the fifth or the fiftieth time, standing in Richter’s office as if he was testifying before a British war crimes tribunal.

Richter had said, patiently, for the fifth or the fiftieth time, “As you know, it would be impossible. Germany did not build fortifications at Castle Cornet and Half Moon Bay in order to permit British warships to come within fifty miles of Saint Peter Port.”

Martel had paused, and then he tried a new tack. “Then let us ask neutral agents, like Switzerland or the International Red Cross. For God’s sake, that won’t impinge on the sovereignty and dignity of the Occupying Power!”

Richter had paused, for this was indeed an approach that he had been privately canvassing with the new rear-admiral who had arrived on the islands in July, to no avail. 

General Müller had been sent east in September 1943. The old boy had been something of a despot, but you could usually work with him - - whereas his replacement, Hüffmeier, was a fanatical believer in the Führer’s new world order, who might actually let the entire island starve to death. There appeared to be no reasoning with him. The Admiral had said, only last week, that, by comparison with many other places, the islands had not even felt the breath of war - - they would never be surrendered, no matter what others felt about it, least of all Richter himself. 

Richter couldn’t very well tell Dr Martel that the new commander of the Channel Islands had as much as ordered him to let the islanders starve. What he said, instead, was, “The British would never permit it, because they don’t believe conditions are this dire. Also, they could not be persuaded that we would not requisition the supplies for ourselves.”

“But you _wouldn’t_ , Colonel! Whitehall would take you at your word, the word of an officer.” Martel pulled himself up short, caught in the act of paying the enemy an unwilling compliment, and amended this to, “And if not, they would believe _me_! You could send me out on a boat due north until I was picked up by the blockade. I could then go to London on parole, deliver my first-hand report of conditions here, and at once return to my post.” 

Richter had sighed. “Doctor, this is militarily impossible. Once you got to London, you would never be able to restrict your mission to pointing out the need for food. You would be asked for an authentic account of the situation on the island, where the gun emplacements were and so forth, and you would tell the truth.”

Martel, tartly: “I don’t think being interrogated about the gun emplacements is going to be of much military use to the Allies! I mean, they’ve clearly already decided to bypass the Channel Islands entirely.”

Richter had had to suppress another sigh; he feared the doctor might be right. Rumour had it that Rommel had tried to get the surplus Channel Islands garrison returned to the mainland where it could be put to better use, only to be turned down by the Führer himself. That celebrated field marshal was dead now - - succumbing to the injuries he had suffered earlier in Normandy, if the news could be believed - - but he had been proven right. Those extra troops were now all marooned here on the islands, cut off from the war by the Allies’ naval blockade: stranded, starving dead weight, additional mouths to feed. 

Richter had said then, and he said it now, “There’s nothing to be done, Doctor. Your arguments are a waste of breath as well as of calories. How do they benefit you? Or the other islanders, to whom we both owe a duty?”

Abruptly recalled to his Controlling Committee obligations, Dr Martel drew himself up short. He turned to Trenett, who had taken a belligerent stance in the middle of the freezing office.

“George, I’d pipe down if I were you. The Kommandant’s saying he’ll turn a blind eye this once. You should do as he says. Your mother would be even worse off if the Germans decided to shoot you for breaching food regulations.”

Trenett snarled, “You’re a fine one to talk, Dr Martel! I’ve never forgotten: you told me my heart condition was punishment for collaborating with Germany. When you were the worst collaborator all along - - you’re helping the Germans to starve us all and save themselves!”

“That’s completely untrue,” Richter began, and found himself echoing the doctor exactly. He continued, glaring at Martel, “As I have been explaining to Dr Martel, it is not the Wehrmacht who are blocking the supply lines and refusing to permit supplies to come through.”

“It’s because the Wehrmacht are refusing to undertake not to pilfer those supplies,” Martel remonstrated. “It’s almost as good as starving us yourselves!”

Richter ground his teeth together to hold back the retort he dearly wished to give. Martel’s words echoed the careless attitude of a Whitehall who would withhold food supplies and in the same breath accuse their enemy of war crimes for not feeding the populace. If he were in the Allies’ shoes - - if he were in _Martel’s_ shoes - - he would never have vouchsafed such an irrational position.

From the way Martel was glaring back at him, it appeared the doctor was harbouring a similar sentiment. 

Richter could have been gratified by this display of fighting spirit - - for in order to fight, one had to be committed to survival - - if only the man were not so blasted _stubborn_.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Trenett announced. He had backed up against his desk; he now seized the nearest sharp object - - a carved, intricate letter opener that looked old enough to date from Guernsey’s prehistoric period - - and brandished it in their direction. “All either of you care about is war and politics, not the people who’re dying! I’ll bloody show you what it’s like, both of you - - just for one day - -” 

“Put it away, you idiot,” Martel said urgently, stepping forward and reaching for the weapon. Richter motioned to the soldiers to stand down and hastened to intercept them both. Trenett slashed out wildly; Martel had taken his gloves off to examine the old lady, and the edge of the letter opener caught him across one bare palm.

As Martel cried out in pain, Richter managed to put himself between Trenett and the doctor. Shielding Martel, he neatly disarmed the angry farmer and tipped him onto the ground for the soldiers to seize hold of.

“Hand him to the Feldgendarmerie. A minor public order offence, or assaulting a member of the Controlling Committee; Kluge might want to refer this to the civilian police.” Richter paused, and then said to his aide, “Say nothing about the short-changing of supplies for now.”

“Are you quite sure, Herr Kommandant?” Hellman had been General Müller’s adjutant before Müller had been sent east; he had been on the spot when Trenett’s original troubles with saboteurs had started. Though his initial interactions with the Feldkommandantur had not been easy ones, the young officer had proved eager to redeem himself, eventually winning over even Ernst Freidel. This was evidenced from his ready acquiescence now: “But certainly, sir, whatever you think best.”

As the soldiers dragged Trenett away, Richter found himself intercepted by Philip Martel. The doctor was bleeding a little, and Richter discovered that he was also bleeding himself.

“It’s just a scratch,” Richter murmured, but Martel insisted on patching him up anyway. The Kommandant had to admit it was not unpleasant to be fussed over for a change, even though the nursemaid was muttering imprecations under his breath about _bloody stubborn Germans_. 

They were not so different, he and Martel: linked by their responsibility to their respective governments, to Guernsey, and, on some level, to each other. If only Richter could make Martel understand the Germans’ position! If the doctor knew what was transpiring at the Kommandantur, with Hüffmeier, with the SS and its infuriating Sturmbannführer Reinicke, he might be more sympathetic to the man who stood between the islanders and the indiscriminate cruelty of warmongerers, to say nothing of war itself.

When Richter and Martel finally left the Trenett estate, the sky was darkening, and an early snow was coming down. It was going to be a long drive back from Mount Durand. Richter hoped to see Martel safely home and to return to the Kommandantur - - and his ever-increasing mountain of paperwork - - before the frigid night fell for good.


	2. "Our going will be a bit cold, eh, before the end?"

Philip woke up in slow increments: stiffness in his joints, cold in his extremities, gnawing hunger in his belly. Stiff and cold and blasted hungry was how he’d awakened every day this year; today, as he roused himself reluctantly from blissful unconsciousness, he seemed worse off than usual.

It was likely because, as he discovered when further sensation returned - - a hard surface under his cheek that wasn’t a pillow, a crick in his upper thoracic spine from his awkward position - - he’d fallen asleep at his desk again. Olive wasn’t going to be amused, but lately she’d given up getting up in the middle of the night to persuade him to come to bed.

As he opened his eyes and the room swam into view, he became aware of the hum of an ancient radiator creaking to life; a sound he remembered from his schoolboy days at Elizabeth College. 

An early dawn was filtering in from a nearby window, casting its thin light over his darkened surroundings. 

Philip raised his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and was confronted with a life-sized image of that genocidal megalomaniac Adolf Hitler in full dress uniform.

Philip heard himself make a strangled sound. He recoiled from the awful sight; he flung himself to his feet, but his stiff knees wouldn’t hold him, and he only managed to up-end himself onto the floor in a great sweep of papers and medical files and everything else that had been on top of his desk.

 _Not_ medical files. Instead, these looked like official memoranda in an unfamiliar typeface and a language that wasn’t English. 

Philip plucked the nearest one off his chest and peered at it. It bore the crest of the OKW, and was signed at the bottom _F. Hüffmeier_.

Philip frowned as he laboriously translated the handwriting in terse German:

_Oberst Richter: your latest requests of 15 and 24 October border on treason. If the British do not supply their people because they believe we are lying about the conditions, or they are trying to starve us into surrender, it is on their heads. We will simply be forced to stop all rations to the civilian population and draw indiscriminately on the Islands’ supplies, as we are permitted to do by the Directive of 18 September. Germany does not build fortresses of the kind which Guernsey has become in order to surrender them. We must defend these shores to the very last man. The time of victory is still within our grasp._

“The man is a stark raving lunatic,” Philip breathed. He had suspected the new Islands commander was even more fanatical than Müller had been, and this just confirmed it. 

As he set this terrible death warrant aside, he saw his hand was trembling.

Long, elegant fingers, unfamiliarly calloused; a sticking-plaster taped across the wrist; on the ring finger, a gold signet ring embossed with a family crest. 

_Not_ his hand.

Philip sat up and looked down for the first time at his person. 

Lean, gaunt limbs, thinner than Philip had ever been even in his youth, encased in the pressed grey uniform of the Wehrmacht. Field tunic undone: medals on one side, a soldier’s insignia on the other.

Philip’s hands flew to his face and encountered the rough stubble of an unfamiliar beard.

 _Not_ unfamiliar; he’d spent enough time staring at it - - shouting at it, even - - over the last four years, ever since this man and his contingent of enemy troops had landed in 1940 and occupied Philip’s home.

Philip staggered over to the window of Richter’s office in the Kommandantur. The misty glass provided just enough reflection to show him Richter’s ascetic features staring back at him in lines of naked horror.

Philip was a medical man, but he was also Guernésiais born and bred; he had grown up with folk tales of pouques stealing humans and leaving changelings in their place, and local sorcerers who gathered at Le Creux es Faies to curse their enemies by casting their spirits into a dog, or an island gull, or another person. Le Chen Bodu, who lurked around the Clos du Valle, and Le Varou, who stalked the neighbourhoods of L’Eree, were said to be inhabited by the spirits of men who had been similarly cursed.

Medical science had no explanation for what had happened, but there was no denying the evidence. Somehow, against all sense, Philip had been cursed and cast into the body of the Kommandant of Guernsey.

Trenett was from one of the old families, maybe this kind of talent was as hereditary as a recessive gene. The antique letter opener which the man had used to wound him and then Richter was now resting on the desk nearest the window, looking old enough to be an instrument of ancient blood magic. 

Philip stumbled away from what he recalled was the desk of Major Freidel, returning to Richter’s side of the office. 

He’d managed to overturn Richter’s upholstered chair in his attempt to flee from the official portrait of Hitler that hung on Richter’s wall. As he got to the floor to pick up the chair and the papers he’d knocked off Richter’s table, he was seized with an irresistible thought. 

The United Kingdom was at war with Germany. It was surely his patriotic duty to make as much use of his present circumstances as he could to glean intelligence on Britain’s behalf, and at the very least help Guernsey in its current straits.

Philip quickly paged through the documents at hand. As far as he could tell, they contained the latest records of food and fuel shortages on the German side, as well as an update of the medical situation. These gave him some pause - - it appeared that Richter had not been lying to him when he’d said that the German soldiers were in fact not much better off than the islanders. The thousands hospitalised for malnutrition, the exercises and training halted because troops were too weak to drill: these figures spoke for themselves.

Philip could not help but feel a pang of guilt; not just for disbelieving Richter, but also for invading the privacy of a man whom he might, under different circumstances, have considered his friend. 

With some effort, he set aside this emotion. This man was not a friend but an enemy, an officer who served a terrible regime which had made war on Philip’s countrymen and Philip himself. It wouldn’t do to let sentimentality and a misplaced sense of honour get the better of him now, when he could actually make a difference to the Allies’ war effort.

Richter’s desk drawers were locked. Philip rummaged around in Richter’s pockets, and after some trial and error, managed to identify the right keys.

He didn’t know what confidential papers he expected to find, but he certainly hadn’t expected an official letter on Whitehall letterhead, written in English.

_Sept 1, 1944. FROM CABINET WAR OFFICES, WHITEHALL, TO GUERNSEY, CHANNEL ISLANDS_

_To the Attention of General Erich Müller, Commander-in-Chief, Channel Islands, or failing him, Colonel Dieter Richter, Kommandant, Guernsey. TOP SECRET, MOST IMMEDIATE, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY_

_VIA PARACHUTE_

_Re: Telephone Cable to France_

_We write to you from the Cabinet War Offices of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland._

_As of August 24, 1944, the Allies have recovered control of the telephonic exchanges at Saint-Malo. Unimpeded connection to Whitehall is possible with the following codes._

A list of codes and cyphers followed, before the letter continued:

_Intelligence received reveals that the connection of the France-Guernsey telephone cable was severed on the Guernsey side on August 18, 1944. We ask that this be reconnected, in order that you may speak with General Gerhard Bassenge to open discussions of the conditions of the Channel Islands’ surrender._

It ended with a list of further codes, and a sign-off from some general whom Philip had never heard of.

In the same file was another letter in the same terms, this one dated September 21. No mention of the condition of the islanders, a repetition of the demand for surrender.

Maybe the Bailiff’s letter had not then reached the Cabinet. Or maybe it was never sent at all; Philip had only had Richter’s word that it had been refused. Or maybe Richter was right, maybe Hüffmeier was right: Whitehall did not believe them, or they were willing to let the islanders starve in order to force a surrender.

And if the fanatical Admiral had his way, the Germans would never surrender, and everyone in the Channel Islands was doomed.

The Controlling Committee had been told, of course, that the British army had cut the telephone cables to Britain and France before they had let the Germans take Guernsey in 1940. The line to France and then Berlin had been duly reconnected by the occupying power, though Philip had not known that the Germans had cut it again when the Allies had retaken Saint-Malo in August. 

If Müller had remained in his position, he could have ordered the cables to be reconnected - - to better convey requests for supplies, even if not for surrender - - but Hüffmeier had clearly forbidden it, and now communications between the powers needed to be dropped by parachute.

What if _Philip_ could order the reconnection of the telephone cable to Saint-Malo so that he could ask for supplies? It couldn’t be that difficult - - less than a day’s work of winching the cable up from the sea bed in the harbour at Saint Peter Port and repairing the severed wires. 

The real question was whether he could keep up the appearances of being Richter sufficiently to order it done, and to keep it a secret not just from Hüffmeier but from the likes of Sturmbannführer Reinicke, whose office was just down the hallway, and who would undoubtedly see such disobedience to Hüffmeier’s orders as treason.

This gave Philip a further guilty pause. Was he prepared to commit treason in Richter’s body? German High Command would never believe Richter had been cursed, and not been in control, when Philip had given the orders; they might shoot him for the acts that Philip was considering undertaking whilst in Richter’s body.

Then again, if Trenett’s curse wasn’t lifted, it might be Philip himself who would be shot while in Richter’s body. That might be preferable; Philip wouldn’t condemn another man for his own actions, especially if that man was Dieter Richter.

Even as he considered these dark thoughts, the door opened and Major Freidel entered the office.

Freidel stopped in his tracks at the sight of Richter on the floor beside his desk, covered in papers. He exclaimed Richter’s first name and rushed to his side, expostulating in a torrent of rapid-fire German. 

As he righted Richter’s chair and then assisted Richter’s body into it, Philip managed to parse what the Major was saying: that it was unacceptable that Richter had once again spent the night at his desk, that he owed it to the men to take better care of his health, whether his collapse was related to yesterday’s run-in with Trenett, whether Richter wanted him to summon the doctor.

“No, no,” Philip said, in German, trying to mimic Richter’s clipped tones; he put his head in his hands so as to muffle his expression as well as his accent. “It’s fine. It’s just a - -” He reached for the necessary vocabulary, which escaped him. “ _Low-grade migraine_ ,” he ended up saying, in English. 

Freidel shook his head, and reverted to the flawless English with which he had addressed Philip over the last four and a half years. “Have we lost all our German during our time on these quiet shores? Or perhaps you’ve absorbed better English medical terminology from Dr Martel?”

Philip groaned: it was bad enough having to pretend to be Richter without also having to endure the Major’s teasing Richter about Philip himself. “Very amusing,” he mumbled, in the same language, and wondered whether he ought to address the Major by his first name, as he had heard Richter do before. At least he was now addressing Freidel in English, which was a blessing.

“You should get to bed,” Freidel said, solicitously. “I shall summon your orderly. Honestly, Dieter, you are doing no one any favours by running yourself ragged. You did not join us in the mess for dinner last night, and now this.”

Had Richter not been eating? This would explain the weakened condition of Richter’s body, the gnawing gastritis Philip was now experiencing first hand. Philip agreed with Freidel: such deprivations would do no one any good, least of all Richter himself.

“Can’t,” he said at last. “Too much work to do. The food situation… We must find a way.”

Freidel sighed. “Indeed, as Dr Martel has been saying. Will he be here this morning, as usual, do you think?”

“Not if I can help it,” Philip muttered, with feeling. “He’ll be asking me why we can’t reconnect the telephone cable next.”

Satisfied that his Kommandant wasn’t going to collapse again, Freidel had turned to cross the room, which was why his back was fortuitously to Philip when he remarked, “Good thing we can’t tell him we’ve already seen to that, eh?”

Philip wasn’t quite able to muffle the high-pitched noise he made in response. Freidel turned around in surprise, and Philip quickly clamped his hand to his forehead and let out a stifled groan.

“I will have Schmidt call for Dr Walter. He can also check the injury Trenett gave you.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Philip said, emphatically. “We don’t want the Admiral to be concerned about me, do we? Or Reinicke!”

“That is true. Reinicke in particular would be only too thrilled to see you temporarily relieved of duty.” 

Philip was struck with a thought. “I don’t suppose the Admiral would stand for it if we had Reinicke sacked first, would he?” 

Freidel’s eyes narrowed, as if entertaining the thought that all might not be quite right with his Kommandant. Fortunately, the eminently practical Major was unlikely to suspect Guernsey folk magic as being the cause. “That isn’t very funny, Herr Oberst. The entire SS on both islands wouldn’t stand for it, including Hauptsturmführer Vetter on Jersey. It’s too late to send anyone to the Eastern front, but the Admiral will have the justification he needs to exile us both to Herm, at least.”

“He’ll do that anyway once he finds out about the telephone,” Philip ventured, testing the waters, and saw the Major’s frown deepen.

“This is why he must not find out.” Freidel’s frown lingered for a moment longer, and then he shook off his doubts, crossed the final distance to his desk, and began to gather up some files, together with Trenett’s letter opener.

“I am due in Court this morning. Your Mr Trenett’s public order case is being brought up for first mention. Don’t worry, we will go easy on him, as you had mentioned to Oberleutnant Hellman.”

“His family has suffered enough,” Philip said, and Freidel frowned again. 

Quickly, Philip added, “Do you think you could have … Hellman come and see me later?” Philip remembered Richter’s bright young aide: someone who might possibly be trusted with the location of a secretly-reconnected telephone line, and who would be accustomed to obeying the orders of someone who looked like the Kommandant.

“I will ask Schmidt to do so after he brings you a cup of coffee,” Freidel said, and took his leave, though not without casting a last, doubtful look at the person he believed was his Kommandant.


	3. "The Colonel. .. is doing a difficult job as decently as he possibly can."

Richter roused from the deepest sleep he had had in months, and instantly knew something was terribly amiss. His skin felt cocooned in soft flannel, the ever-present pain in his gut had vanished, and a woman’s soft voice was calling him by an unfamiliar name.

For a dizzying instant, he thought of Anna. 

He had not seen his wife in more than two and a half years. Müller had refused to permit him home leave, not since Anna’s arrest by the Gestapo for expressing regret over the Führer’s survival. Richter had received a telegram in the spring from her brother, saying that she had finally been released from custody, that she had taken ill, and would write herself when she could. Then, nothing: either because of Anna’s usual correspondence habits, or the naval blockade, or the fact that the Allies had started bombing Berlin. 

Now, men like General Beck and von Wittke and perhaps even Field Marshall Rommel, who might have ended the war, were dead in the wake of an unsuccessful plot to kill the Führer. With them died the hope that Germany might still be saved from itself. In his darkest moments, Richter feared that Anna might also be lost, in the way that their country and the war were now lost.

But Anna had never had the habit of addressing him in such affectionate tones. Or in _English_.

“Darling,” Olive Martel was saying, tenderly, “if you’re going to leave me alone all night, the least you could do is make sure you don’t catch your death of cold. Your hands are like ice!”

Years of military discipline held Dieter Richter stock-still as the doctor’s wife rubbed her warm fingers over the hands she was assuming to be her husband’s.

“How about some coffee?” Richter said at last, which he felt was rather an in-character greeting for the good doctor. It seemed to convince Mrs Martel, at any rate, for she laughed and assented and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Such a romantic. Can’t understand why I ever agreed to marry you!”

This wasn’t entirely fair, of course; Richter was sure he could name any number of Philip Martel’s other husbandly qualities, though he could not quite recollect them at present.

When Mrs Martel had left the room, Richter took quick stock of the situation. He was in Philip Martel’s study, sitting at Philip Martel’s desk with its silver-framed photographs of Martel’s children, wearing an enormous flannel dressing gown belted over flannel pyjamas that he had never seen before but felt immediately certain belonged to Martel. He did not need to stare into the small surgical mirror on the shelf to understand what had happened: as he had slept, his consciousness had somehow been transported into Philip Martel’s body.

For an instant, Richter had to fight for composure. Perhaps he was experiencing a psychotic break of some kind, brought about by nerves or poor nutrition. Or perhaps this was a bad dream! Grimly, he set aside the momentary weakness, for the evidence of what had occurred was plain enough. Otto Kluge had mentioned stories of local folk magic; what had befallen him clearly owed itself to an island hex of some kind. 

How was such a hex to be reversed? Even more importantly: what was the nature of the hex? If he was here, in Philip Martel’s house and inside Philip Martel’s body, did that mean that Martel himself was within Richter, and in the Kommandantur?

The last thing Richter remembered was returning to his office last night to catch up on the day’s paperwork. He must have fallen asleep at his desk, in the same way as Martel had clearly fallen asleep at his. 

Which meant that when Martel woke up, he wouldn’t have been met with kind words and an affectionate kiss. Instead, he would have been faced with suspicious German-speaking soldiers, being ill able to approximate the speech and manner of the German Kommandant, in a garrison very much on edge, where one misplaced word might precipitate deadly action … and surrounded by the Kommandant’s confidential papers. 

He needed to get to the Kommandantur urgently: to rescue Martel from the Kommandantur staff, and the Wehrmacht’s secrets from the good doctor. 

Richter took a moment to rifle through the contents of Martel’s desk. He discovered the locked drawer containing the April, 1943 list of Todt deaths on Alderney - - so it had been Martel who had tipped off the newspaperman, Jack Foster, after all! - - as well as the most recent health statistics of the islanders on Guernsey. He had assumed the doctor had exaggerated the reports, as Martel had been wont to do since the beginning of his career on the Controlling Committee, so he was surprised to learn Martel had, if anything, been downplaying the worst of it.

In particular, Martel hadn’t mentioned that Betty Ridge had taken ill, or Helen Porteous. Richter could not fail to be moved: these were women whose lives had been irretrievably damaged by the occupying power, and Richter keenly felt the weight of responsibility.

When he heard Mrs Martel’s footfall on the stair, Richter sprang into action. He started the wrong way down the corridor and had to double back to find the Martels’ bedroom and attached bathroom, where he was faced with a wide-angle reflection of the doctor’s morning hair. He was forced to suppress a shudder, and not just because of the horror of this accursed situation.

Richter had no time save for the most cursory ablutions. He dressed Martel’s body in an unobjectionable shirt, sweater and trouser combination he had seen the doctor wear a hundred times before, folded the doctor’s dressing gown and pyjamas and placed them neatly on a ledge in the bathroom, and turned around to meet Olive Martel’s twinkling eyes.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

Richter steeled his suddenly-racing heart to calm. Mrs Martel was still smiling, and she held the cup outstretched to him, so this must be a quaint British joke of some kind. “I’ve decided to - -” What was the colloquialism? “- - turn over a new leaf.”

She nodded appreciatively. “Are you off to the Kommandantur already? Drink your ersatz coffee, at least, while it’s hot.”

Richter did as he was told. The moment of domesticity, so far removed from his usual morning at the Kommandantur, put him once again, and painfully, in mind of his own missing wife and their home. 

He knew he couldn’t very well kiss Mrs Martel goodbye; he settled for patting her awkwardly on the shoulder before taking the stairs two at a time.

There wasn’t much petrol left in the doctor’s car, but Richter considered the urgency was warranted under the circumstances. The guard at the Kommandantur gate, to whom Martel had clearly become a common sight, waved him through. 

“Oberst Richter left ten, perhaps fifteen minutes ago,” Rilke, the staff officer on reception said. “He said that you weren’t expected in today, Dr Martel.”

Richter ground his teeth together: he had just missed the man. “Where did he go?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the Kommandant’s plans, Doctor,” Rilke said, shrugging. “You’ll have to ask Major Freidel when he comes back from Court.”

Richter bit back a curse; in any case, he wasn’t sure how his stoutly sensible Feldkommandant would take to the news that Richer and Martel had switched bodies. This was probably more Kluge’s area of expertise. Only, he could not approach the Oberleutnant in the office Kluge shared with Reinicke - - he needed to get Kluge alone.

“If you could tell Oberleutnant Kluge that I need to see him privately, about a matter concerning a Professor Brauer of the University at Hamburg?”

Rilke nodded, and put the message through to Kluge’s office. A minute later, Otto Kluge appeared in the hallway. 

“Come with me,” the Oberleutnant said, without preamble, and ushered him into the office Richter shared with Major Freidel. Kluge took a moment to note that the room was empty, before turning to glare suspiciously at the person he believed to be Martel. 

“Who told you about Brauer, Dr Martel?”

Richter said, in German, “You told me yourself, Otto, at the police station at the corner of Spielbudenplatz Square. After the general election of 1933, you came to the university to arrest Professor Brauer as an enemy of the regime. I told you the accusations were false, which your own investigations confirmed. After Brauer's release, he fled the country on a friend’s passport, and you said you did not regret your actions, for he had been unjustly accused.”

Kluge’s eyes bulged as he demanded, in German, “Who are you?”

“It’s _me_ , Otto,” Richter said, in the same language, and produced the security codes to which Kluge was privy.

“Verdammt,” Kluge marvelled. Richter let the policeman prod him - - that was to say, to prod Martel’s body - - in order to get to grips with the evidence. “So, those old wives’ tales are true after all! I remember an alleged body-swapping event in the ‘30s, in the Harburg Hills region, but there was insufficient evidence to present a case, and some of the lads thought it was really one of those sex things that had just gotten out of hand.”

Richter winced, and Kluge continued, cheerfully, “Never fear, Herr Kommandant. We have Trenett in custody, it should be easy to have him lift the curse, eh? We should also have that Miss Brown send over all the available library books on Guernsey hexes.”

Richter said, “I’m not sure we can count on Trenett managing to switch us back before Martel does something we might regret. We need to find Martel, and quickly.”

“Hm. Do you have any idea what the doctor might be trying to do? You say you fell asleep at your desk; he would have woken up here, and seen all this.” 

The two men surveyed Richter’s desk, which was covered in an uncharacteristically haphazard pile of paperwork. Sifting through the papers, they discovered the file which had held the British War Cabinet’s September letters that had been dropped on the island via parachute from British aircraft. The letters themselves were missing.

Richter bit back a curse. “Could the man actually be planning on surrendering the islands? Whitehall would never believe him. Besides, there are only seven men on this island who know the telephone cables have been restored, and Dr Martel isn’t one of them.”

“The information is secure,” Kluge agreed, as calmly as one tasked with keeping this secret from the SS officer with whom he shared an office. “Martel might have the codes, but he has no means of contacting Whitehall, even if he was planning on using your body to unilaterally surrender.”

Richter sighed: he would not have blamed Martel for trying the unthinkable, not when he himself harboured the same dangerous fantasies. The war might be lost, but it was far from over - - those in command on these islands as well as in Germany would never admit to it, and certainly he, the Kommandant of Guernsey, would never be permitted to deliver up the island to the British.

As a result, he and everyone in his command were trapped here on a cold rock beyond even the last death throes of battle, slowly starving to death - - with islanders who would die first, whose own government was prepared to let them die in order to force the Germans to their knees.

Kluge surely knew that, if it was up to Richter, he would have not hesitated to surrender. In order to fight, it was necessary to survive, and the chances of survival were running as low as the islands’ food, power and medical supplies. Now Beck and von Wittke and Rommel were dead, there was nothing left save for surrender, or death.

It was not simply orders that prevented him, of course. The Admiral had the backing of Reinicke and the SS troops, and could order Richter exiled to Herm or Alderney, cut off from the support of the men who would be loyal to him. After the July plot to assassinate the Führer, many of the SS suspected the Wehrmacht was actively plotting against them, and Hüffmeier was an exceedingly paranoid man.

And there was the chance that Anna was still alive. Freidel’s wife and daughters remained in Heidelberg, and Kluge’s family in Hamburg. They were hostages to a genocidal regime that would consume everything in its path before it consumed itself, as well as those that had served it. 

Of course, this was something Richter and his men had signed up for when they took the Wehrmacht oath of service, and something they might have deserved. But for those innocents, it was a different story. 

No: surrender was outside Richter’s power, as well as his courage. He could only believe that the Admiral might be persuaded to see sense before too many starved to death, or died senselessly defending these shores. It was principally for this reason that direct means of communications had been secretly put in place, by Richter and Freidel and those like-minded few who hoped against hope that sanity might eventually prevail.

A knock sounded at the door, breaking Richter’s train of thought. Rilke entered. “Oberleutnant Kluge, Oberleutnant Hellman called for Major Freidel, but seeing as the Major’s still in Court, he said he’d call back. Thought you might want to know as well, in case you see the Major before I do.”

“I’ll leave word,” Kluge said, pulling out his notepad. “Did Hellman say what the issue was?”

“No, but he left here with Oberst Richter, so it might have something to do with the Kommandant.” 

Once again, Richter was obliged to deploy military discipline in order to keep his expression deadpan. “Oberleutnant Hellman and the Oberst left here together this morning?” 

Young Hellman had perfect English, was eager to please, and was one of the seven men on Guernsey who knew that Richter had had the telephone cables to France secretly reconnected.


	4. "Never again, we said; never again. But here are you, and here I am.”

Remnants of last night’s snowfall clung to the ground; frost lined the sparse trees and rooftops of nearby Saint Peter Port. Along this deserted stretch of rocky beach, out of sight of the harbour and well within the brightly-marked lines off limits to non-military personnel, the overcast sky promised an even colder end to an already cold morning.

Philip Martel, doctor and reluctant community leader, husband to Olive, father to children damaged by the war, was taking up arms in that war at last. 

This wasn’t a direct strike against the enemy, as he had sought as a young man in the first war - - it wasn’t a blow at all, really, but, God willing, it might make a difference to the islanders to whom he owed a duty, and play a small part in the shifting calculus of these endgame days between loss and surrender.

The apparatus in the small lean-to seemed even more primitive than in the days of the Great War: a microphone transmitter, a large funnel that acted as a receiver, long cords wrapped in insulation that ran from the switchboard connection out of an aperture in a corner of the shack. There was a desultory attempt to clad the cables in piping and run them over the adjoining edge of the harbour and into the grey ocean itself. It all looked desperately vulnerable to incapacitation or sabotage, not least this makeshift shed, barely disguised and completely without security. It seemed the sheer audacity of this contingency plan, the closely-guarded secret, had been thought protection enough. 

No one would have expected this particular situation, or that Philip would take advantage of it. But Philip had had months of watching patients starve, and he hadn’t hesitated. Wearing Colonel Richter’s skin and his air of authority and an approximation of his accent, he’d managed to convince a young officer to drive him out to this remote location, and to wait while he tried with his passable German and better French to connect with the switchboard operators at Saint-Malo.

He’d had to give the codes several times before they agreed to connect him with the Allied garrison at the fortress. A man who identified himself as an American commander from the 83rd Infantry Division came to the line and insisted on Philip demonstrating further bona fides before putting him through to England. Philip furnished Richter’s full name and rank as well as other choice details with some relish; Diana Prideaux could say what she liked about his acting skills, but he had to say he was rather enjoying playing the part.

As he waited by the window of the shed, he could see Hellman pacing up and down the beach outside. It was vaguely worrying: any passing patrol might spot the young Oberleutnant and come by to investigate. But maybe it was just as well; Philip hadn’t been looking forward to conveying his requests to England for aid before an audience. 

Abruptly, the receiver crackled to life, and clipped, distinctly British tones barked: 

“William Mabane, Parliamentary Secretary to the Ministry of Food, formerly Parl. Sec. to the Home Office. To whom am I speaking?”

Excitement shot through Philip. Finally, someone who might make a difference, even though the man might just be some bureaucrat who had only the faintest inkling of the situation.

“Oberst Dieter Richter, serving Kommandant of Guernsey.” Philip followed this with the codes that were cited in the September letters, which had brought him this far.

There was a rustling of papers on the other end. “I understand you were at Cambridge, Colonel. I was at Gonville and Caius in the early ‘20s. Did you know old Hugh Anderson?”

Philip swallowed, giving thanks for those long conversations about Richter’s Cambridge days, when there had been cherry trees all along. “I’m afraid I didn’t, Mr Secretary. I was a research fellow at Peterhouse, a decade later. William Birdwood was Master of College then; he’d seen action in the Great War, in Gallipoli.”

“As did I, in France, as a captain with the East Yorkshire Regiment. So you see, we are military men who understand each other. Why are you calling us, Colonel? We’ve already received the answer from your commander-in-chief, Rear-Admiral Hüffmeier: that he was fully informed of the military situation and didn’t see any need for further discussion. After which our negotiators were fired on by the coastal battery on Alderney.”

This was news to Philip; he could not say, though, that Hüffmeier’s response was a surprise. “Mr Secretary, did you not receive the letters as to the situation on the Channel Islands? I wrote - - that is to say, I _facilitated_ \- - several first-hand reports of the dire conditions, which I was told had reached Whitehall.”

“Yes, they were routed to the Home Office. But you’ll forgive me, Colonel, if we take what your side says with a pinch of salt. OKW has tried this tactic before: appealing to us on humanitarian grounds, promising that civilians will be given priority, and then using our public-spiritedness to re-supply and re-fortify themselves against the Allies. This is why it must be surrender, or nothing.” 

For a moment, Philip could hardly speak. The arrogance of this paper-pushing civil servant seemed almost as galling as Hüffmeier’s had been. He swallowed and said, “Are you aware, Mr Secretary, that the people on this island - - _British subjects_ , who sent our sons and daughters to fight in this war - - are starving to death? Conditions will soon become impossible here. Bread finishes December 15, sugar January 6. Winter is upon us and coal stocks are exhausted. Civilian medical supplies are exhausted: we have no insulin, no diphtheria antitoxin, no quinine. For God’s sake, we’ve had to make bandages made from torn-up sheets and perform surgeries with moss for cotton wool!”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Philip continued, angrily: “There is an old lady - - one of the oldest families on Guernsey - - wheelchair-bound, her late husband was a captain who died at the Somme. Her only son has been killed by - - that is to say, he was shot by soldiers while trying to escape to England to do his duty. She is slowly starving to death because there is no more protein on the island, and because she’s giving her milk ration to the girl who works for her. That girl is sick, too; pneumonia, and no beds in the hospital to take her.”

More paper rustling, and the sound of a pen scratching: Mabane was finally taking notes. “This is the widow Porteous? She was mentioned in the reports that were sent. I knew someone in her husband’s unit.”

“You will never meet a more courageous woman,” Philip said, fiercely. “You mention the rear-admiral. With respect, Mr Secretary, he will not allow a surrender. He isn’t bluffing. He cares nothing for the islanders, nothing apart from the glory of the German Reich. If Whitehall calls his bluff, you will be killing us. Killing Helen Porteous, scores of others - - whose lives would be saved if Britain takes action, and whose deaths will be on your conscience if Britain does not.”

Mabane’s pen went silent, and Philip could hear, through the crackling line, the man thinking hard. Philip realised his Richter impersonation had slipped when he’d referenced “us”; he hoped Mabane hadn’t noticed.

Finally, the junior minister said, slowly, “If we were to take you at your word, Colonel, about the conditions for the islanders, and also about calling Hüffmeier’s bluff, how can we be sure you can be trusted? The PM will need a guarantee that, if supplies are sent to Guernsey, the … occupying power will ensure the food reaches Helen Porteous and the other islanders, and will not be used to further the ‘glory of the German Reich’.”

It was Philip’s turn to fall silent. Hüffmeier was certainly fanatical enough to let the islanders starve if the British were to insist on surrender, he might even be fanatical enough to let them starve even if the British capitulated and agreed to send the food. 

The temptation, of course, was to give whatever assurances that were necessary, regardless of whether the Wehrmacht would in fact follow through. But Philip didn’t know if that would work, and was loath, despite the terribly high stakes, to bind Richter to such an onerous personal commitment.

In an attempt to come up with a solution, he got up from the desk and looked out of the window: to see his own face staring back at him, untamed curls buffeted by the wind.

The receiver crackled tinnily. “Colonel Richter? Colonel Richter, are you still there?”

“I am,” Philip said, slowly. He made a beckoning sign, and Richter opened the door and stepped into the shack. 

Philip had remembered to belt Richter’s revolver around his waist before he’d left the Kommandantur, but he did not have it in him to use it on its rightful owner; besides, Richter didn’t look like he was about to physically attack. In fact, he didn’t look particularly angry; there was that grave, sombre expression Philip had seen Richter wear so many times before, which gave Philip’s own features a foreign, strangely moving dignity.

Instead of _How dare you_ , or even, _What do you think you’re doing_ , Richter said, quietly, “I’ve heard enough.”

“Colonel Richter, who’s there?”

Richter’s mouth quirked with amusement, and Philip said, impulsively, “Mr Secretary, it’s one of the members of the Controlling Committee. Doctor Philip Martel, the representative for medical affairs. He can attest to everything I have said about the medical conditions on these islands.”

He held the transmitter out to Richter, and Richter took it from him, conflict writ large in his face. Regardless, the real Colonel said, readily enough, and in accents that sounded much like Philip’s own, “It’s all true. People are dying, and the Admiral would rather let them die than surrender.”

Mabane raised his voice in frustration. “All right, Doctor, you and the Kommandant have both convinced me. But the question remains: what assurances can you give us that humanitarian supplies sent to the Channel Islands will go to feed the islanders, and not the German troops?”

Richter took a deep breath, and so did Philip: this was the point on which the entire harebrained exercise hung, and the 90,000 lives on the islands.

Then Richter squared his shoulders - - Philip’s shoulders - - and it was the clipped, precise accents of the Kommandant of Guernsey which articulated, very carefully, “Sir, you have my word that we will not pilfer humanitarian supplies sent for the explicit benefit of the islanders, to whom the occupying power owes a duty of care. And a German officer’s word is unimpeachable; once it is given it will never be violated, or the whole honour of the Wehrmacht will be destroyed.”

That firm, ringing voice left no room for doubt. Philip’s heart swelled treacherously; under different circumstances, he might even have been moved to follow where this man led.

Even Mabane did not seem unmoved. “That may be, Colonel. But even if we can trust you, how can we trust Rear-Admiral Hüffmeier? You said it yourself, the man cares for nothing apart from the glory of the German Reich.”

Richter raised his eyebrows at Philip, covering the transmitter with his hand. “You said that?” he whispered, and Philip nodded, making a little shrug of apology. Richter’s lips quirked again: “Well, you’re not wrong.”

To Whitehall, Richter said, “Mr Secretary, the rear-admiral doesn’t know I had this line reconnected. As far as he’s aware, our last word was to refuse to engage further with the British, and the France-Guernsey cable remains severed at the bottom of Saint Peter Port harbour.” 

“I’m very surprised you managed to worm this intelligence out of Major Freidel,” he added, to Philip, who whispered back, “As you know, I can be very persuasive!”

Richter snorted, and continued, more soberly, to Mabane, “If word of these liberties were to get out, the rear-admiral would consider my actions to be treason, rather than a sensible contingency plan that any military commander would develop in a time of war. I would be court-martialled and undoubtedly shot.”

Philip couldn’t help flinching at the thought. Richter shot a reassuring glance at him, adding, “I am trusting you with this knowledge, Mr Secretary. Only seven people know this - - eight, with Dr Martel - - and now there is you.” He paused. “In any case, if we double-crossed you, it would become obvious very quickly, and you would merely halt the supplies. One voyage alone cannot supply 60,000 civilians from now until the end of the war.”

There was a lengthy passage filled with crackling and silence, as long as the distance between Guernsey and London. Then Mabane sighed. 

“All right, Colonel, I will recommend it to the PM. We’ll place ourselves, and the islanders, at the mercy of your good faith, and your ingenuity. What will you tell Hüffmeier? You’ll need some explanation for the British ships suddenly showing up at the Guernsey harbour.”

Richter considered this. “Would you send us another letter by parachute? Perhaps saying that you had been lobbied by Switzerland, or the International Red Cross, and would propose letting a supply ship through the blockade - - on our honour not to requisition the supplies, and to maintain basic rations for the islanders? You could also add that you would not send other ships if there was evidence we were not keeping to our word.”

“Very well,” Mabane said, and Philip let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you for your call, Colonel, and for being so sensible about matters. Please also convey my thanks to Doctor Martel for his diligence. You are fortunate to have such a man working so closely with you on the Controlling Committee.”

“Indeed. We have had our differences, but I’m indeed fortunate in him,” Richter said, a distinct twinkle in his eye, and Philip said, returning the smile, “The feeling’s mutual.”

“Since I have you on the line, Colonel, there is the other matter which the PM is very keen to discuss,” Mabane ventured. “I believe you are familiar with General Bassenge; if you agree, we may in fact arrange to connect the both of you via the telephone very soon …”

Richter hesitated, then Philip’s face - - _his_ face - - set in the decisive lines Philip had seen so many times before.

“You’re in a rush to see me court-martialled, Mr Secretary. I should take my leave of you. Thank you, and good afternoon.” 

He flipped the switch, and cut the connection, and then he let out a gust of breath and had to sit down on the edge of the makeshift table. Philip put a hand out to steady him, and found to his embarrassment that he was even less steady than Richter was. There was a moment where they needed to hold on to each other to keep their footing. 

And what of it? Neither of them were young men any longer, and it had been long months without proper nutrition; besides, they had both had a very trying last twenty-four hours, and the day wasn’t over yet. 

Perhaps history would judge them for what they’d done, but Philip rather thought they had achieved the right thing for the people of Guernsey. He just hoped Richter could forgive him. 

“I’m not sorry for what I did,” he said, at last. “We’re at war, and our situation was desperate; you would have done exactly the same if the positions had been reversed. But I am sorry to have risked a court martial for you. I hope Hüffmeier wouldn’t really have you shot; he needs you too much.”

Richter’s lips twitched. “I suppose I’m not sorry for what you did, after all,” he mused. “Perhaps there’s a certain higher purpose to this Guernsey magic; we’ll just have to hope the curse has been spent, and will now reverse on its own… But I should tell you that I let your wife kiss me this morning? A braver man would apologise to Mrs Martel himself, but I think I might prefer facing Hüffmeier’s firing squad.”

“Nonsense. There’s no one braver,” Philip said, and found he meant it.

Through the window, they could both see Kluge and Hellman on the beach, watching the tide come in. Philip took a moment to savour the irony: in the wider world beyond Guernsey’s shores, the tides of war had turned, and were ebbing away from Germany at last.


	5. "Are we not responsible for one another?"

It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, named for the practice of people giving Christmas boxes - - commonly food or a small gift - - in an act of kindness to those who had provided good service in the course of the year. It was fitting, therefore, that Philip had chosen this day to bring his Red Cross parcel to the Kommandantur, so that he and Richter could share some New Zealand coffee together.

Philip was glad to see Richter looking rather better off. After spending a day with Richter’s gastritis, Philip had had a word with Dr Walter to see to the Kommandant’s diet; he’d mentioned it to Major Freidel as well for good measure. And, of course, since the _SS Vega’s_ November visit, during which food parcels from Canada and New Zealand had been delivered, conditions on the islands had improved markedly. 

Richter had obviously managed to convince Hüffmeier not to pilfer the parcels, and Whitehall that the Germans hadn’t double-crossed them, because the _SS Vega_ had been allowed to make a second visit on Christmas Eve, and Philip and Olive had enjoyed a proper Christmas Day lunch of lamb and green peas, when barely a month before, they’d rather despaired of having any sustenance at all. 

Philip was acutely aware that he owed a debt of gratitude to this man. The whole island did, at that.

Richter handed him a cup of coffee rather gingerly, making sure not to touch him. Philip couldn’t exactly blame him; he’d been similarly leery of physical contact with Richter, in case somehow proximity triggered a repeat of the body-swapping incident. 

The curse had lifted after a day - - Philip and Richter had passed the night in Richter’s office, under the watchful eye of Oberleutnant Kluge, and when they awakened the next morning they discovered themselves returned to their rightful bodies - - but all the same Richter had had Trenett’s ancient weapon locked away, and they both were giving the Trenetts the widest berth possible. 

Richter asked, now, tentatively, “Did Mrs Martel enjoy her Christmas?”

“Yes, thank you,” Philip said. He’d admitted to Richter that he had made a clean breast of it to Olive, who had exclaimed, “It’s bad enough the Germans have been occupying the island without them occupying my husband, too!” Philip had been tickled, but he knew Richter hadn’t found it amusing at all.

Philip enquired, “How about your lot? How has old Reinicke been taking things?”

“Actually reasonably well.” Someone from Whitehall had had the strategic foresight to include a parcel addressed to Reinicke’s office. It had contained cigars, which had put the Sturmbannführer in an uncharacteristically good mood. “Admiral Hüffmeier, however, is a different story.”

Philip wasn’t at all surprised. Richter didn’t proffer further details about the state of mind of the rear-admiral, who seemed to have gotten even more tyrannical since the _SS Vega_ visits. Philip knew their situation on these islands was tenuous, that their present good fortune rested on the narrowest spar that could be yanked away at any moment, and that Richter’s own fate was the most insecure of all.

He sipped his coffee, savouring the luxurious taste. It fortified him sufficiently to ask the next question. 

“Are you regretting what you did, Colonel? … What _we_ did?”

Richter sipped his own coffee, and didn’t respond. Finally, he said, “I hear old Mrs Trenett is on her feet again.”

“That she is.” Philip set his cup down on Richter’s desk, and continued, impulsively, “What will happen when it’s not just a humanitarian mission, though? What would happen if there’s a gunship, demanding surrender? What will Admiral Hüffmeier do?”

Unspoken was, of course, the _What would_ you _do?_ Philip was acutely aware of Mabane’s last offer: a conversation with a captured German colonel, to open discussions regarding the Channel Islands’ surrender.

Richter set his cup down as well. Casually, he remarked, “There may be no need to send a gunship, not with how easy it is now to get a line through to the right places. So easy; as we know, even a civilian could do it.”

Philip smiled appreciatively, and the Colonel’s gaze took on a faraway cast. Philip could almost see what was in Richter’s mind: a small lean-to by the sea, a connection to an honourable enemy, a treasonous act that had nevertheless saved lives, and that might yet save countless more.

Perhaps, one day, Richter would find his way back to that place on the beach, to turn back the tides of war that had arrived four and a half years ago on their shores. Perhaps that day wasn’t as far off as any of them might believe.

**Author's Note:**

> The show doesn’t extend to the 1944 period, but we know [General Müller left the Islands in Sept 1943](https://forum.axishistory.com/viewtopic.php?t=210612#p1902507), and Rear-Admiral Hüffmeier arrived on the Channel Islands in July 1944, immediately after the plot to assassinate Hitler had failed. He didn’t outrank von Schmettow, but he would have outranked Richter, which is why here he takes Müller’s role as Commander-in-Chief of the Channel Islands immediately, rather than having to depose von Schmettow in order to do so IRL in Feb 1945.
> 
> [ Guernsey myths and legends](https://www.visitguernsey.com/magazine/guernsey-s-myths-and-legends/).  
> [The conditions on Guernsey post June 1944, culminating in the arrival of the Vega on 27 December 1994](https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-guernsey-30399377#:~:text=The%20ship%20arrived%20in%20Guernsey,cross%20on%2C%20red%20and%20white).  
> The suggestion Martel makes in Part 1 - - to take a yacht directly to Whitehall to beg for food - - echoes [Lord Coutanche’s similar offer, which was rejected by von Schmettow as being militarily unworkable](https://books.google.com.sg/books/about/The_Memoirs_of_Lord_Coutanche.html?id=hdmGAAAAIAAJ&redir_esc=y.).  
> [The challenges of growing crops on Guernsey in the winter in WW2](https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/stories/47/a1998147.shtml).  
> [The challenges of supplying the reinforced military population on the Channel Islands](https://books.google.com.sg/books/about/Channel_Islands_at_War.html?id=zv9mAAAAMAAJ&redir_esc=y:).  
> [The situation with the phone cables to Britain and France between 1940 and the Allies’ retaking of Saint-Malo in August 1944.](https://www.theislandwiki.org/index.php/)  
> The two letters dated September 1 and 21, 1944 between the Allies and Guernsey, asking for the telephone cable to be reconnected so that surrender terms could be discussed, [as described in _The Model Occupation: The Channel Islands Under German Rule, 1940-1945, Madeleine Bunting_](https://books.google.com.sg/books/about/The_Model_Occupation.html?id=46MhAQAAIAAJ&redir_esc=y).  
> [Churchill’s war memos](http://www.churchillarchive.com/explore/page?action=init&contextType=Catalogue&contextId=CHAR%2023%2F14#image=21), and his [War Cabinet](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Churchill_war_ministry#War_Cabinet_members), incl. his [Parlimentary Secretary for the Ministry of Food and the Home Office](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Mabane,_1st_Baron_Mabane).


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